Chapter Thirty
I was once told that the God-Killer was in fact, the original.
The creator of everything. That this being formed and shaped the gods.
But after some time, the God-Killer became disillusioned by its own creations, by how vile they had become with time.
And so the God-Killer began to cut them down.
One by one. The gods ran away, hiding in different parts of the world from the very thing that had given them life. That had created them.
Tabitha Wysteria
Ylva had been made to stand in Hagan’s chamber since dawn, rooted in place as he pored over yet another of the countless scrolls strewn across his desk.
His blood magic wrapped tight around her limbs, an invisible vice that held her obedient and still.
They both knew the truth of it: the moment he dared to release her, she would tear his head from his shoulders without hesitation.
And he knew better than to allow that. Not after all he had forced her to see.
The past days had passed in a suffocating hush.
Ylva had retreated into silence so complete that not even Arden’s voice could reach her.
The ache in her chest was constant, a deep, grinding pain that threatened to break her open, to leave her sobbing and exposed.
But she would not give Hagan, or any of his witches, that pleasure.
She was valkyrian. A warrior. And warriors endured.
She would find a way out. She always did.
The doors slammed open with sudden violence, the sound cracking through the chamber.
Eris strolled inside as though she owned the place.
Her attention landed briefly on Ylva, sharp and satisfied, before she dropped into one of the many empty wooden chairs.
She lounged there with careless ease, legs splayed, arms draped over the armrests, the picture of lazy dominance.
Tilting her head back, she let her wild brown hair spill over the chair like a fallen curtain.
The body the goddess had chosen was not beautiful in any gentle sense, but it carried an edge, something honed and dangerous. Her purple eyes were wrong in a way that set the nerves on edge, unlike those of any mortal kin. One only had to look closely to know the truth.
A goddess had made her home there.
‘Do you require something?’ Hagan asked at last, his voice carrying from the desk without so much as a glance in their direction.
‘I’m bored.’
‘Do you not have better uses for your time?’ he replied, a faint crease forming between his brows. ‘Causing havoc and chaos, perhaps?’
‘I do.’ Eris huffed, and a loose strand of brown hair leapt into the air as if startled, before settling lazily against her shoulder once more.
She shifted in the chair, her eyes glittering with mischief as they slid back to Ylva.
She winked. ‘But you are far more entertaining.’ Then, with feigned curiosity, she tilted her head. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Reading.’
‘What are you reading?’
Hagan exhaled slowly, a sound heavy with old irritation, and finally turned to face her.
‘During the Great War, when the drakonians invaded my lands and butchered most of my people, they did not leave empty-handed. They stole from us. Art, books…even secrets.’ His gaze drifted around the chamber, lingering on the walls heavy with shelves and scattered parchments.
‘This keep houses a rather impressive collection of what was taken.’
Eris rolled her eyes. ‘And what, exactly, is so fascinating about a pile of dusty scrolls?’
Hagan’s mouth twitched, as though he might laugh at the question and thought better of it. ‘There is forbidden magic among them,’ he said evenly. ‘Magic lost to us, buried by war and time. I intend to reclaim it. To learn it. And then to teach it to my people.’
Eris turned her head slowly to study him. It was impossible to tell what passed behind that stare; her expression was always the same unsettled blend of amusement and irritation, as if the world itself were little more than a mildly diverting inconvenience.
‘How interesting,’ she mumbled, though the words rang hollow, edged with mockery.
Her attention drifted back to Ylva, who had endured the entire exchange in rigid silence, as though pretending hard enough might render her invisible.
‘And does she truly need to be here for all this? Or may I borrow her for a little… amusement?’
Ylva’s muscles tightened, every instinct screaming at her to brace.
She felt Hagan’s attention settle on her, heavy and assessing, his jaw set hard.
‘She keeps me company,’ he said at last, his tone flat, almost lazily disinterested.
‘I could keep you company,’ Eris pouted, drumming her long, pale fingers against her stomach. Then her eyes flicked down Ylva’s form with open disdain. ‘Why do you insist on dressing her in such ridiculous things?’
Ylva resisted the urge to glance down at the blue-grey gown she had been forced into for the past two days—another stolen relic from the wolverian castle, one of many Hagan seemed to hoard. Dresses dragged across kingdoms by witches, only to be used as silent cruelties.
‘She might remember something,’ Hagan muttered, already turning back to his scrolls.
Eris scrunched her nose. ‘And why would you want that?’
Hagan shrugged, as though the answer were beneath explanation. ‘It amuses me.’
Eris sighed theatrically. ‘Fine. If you refuse to entertain me, I suppose I shall find diversion elsewhere.’
‘Where exactly?’ Hagan asked, not bothering to look up.
‘I think I’ll pay my mother a visit.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes, well.’ Eris rose to her feet, rolling her shoulders. ‘Technically the bitch who married my father. She’ll suffice, seeing as my real mother is skulking about somewhere.’ She stepped closer to Ylva, her presence sharp and suffocating.
Ylva did not move.
‘Do you know where she is?’ Hagan asked. He was no longer pretending interest in the scrolls; his full attention had shifted to Eris as the goddess drifted closer to Ylva.
Ylva met his gaze briefly. She would not ask him for help—never that—but the truth remained: she did not want this goddess anywhere near her. She forced herself to breathe slowly through her nose, steady and measured, willing Eris to lose interest and move on.
‘I have a faint idea of where she might be hiding,’ Eris purred, her voice soft as rot, now only inches from Ylva.
Ylva kept her eyes fixed on Hagan, refusing to acknowledge the presence circling her like a predator. Yet she caught something unexpected in his purple stare.
Worry.
As though even he feared what Eris might decide to do.
‘Eris,’ Hagan warned the moment the goddess lifted her hand and caught a strand of Ylva’s white hair between her long fingers.
‘Yes?’ Eris replied, her smile stretching into something sharp and delighted as she turned, still holding the strand captive.
‘Leave her,’ he said, his voice low, his stare hardening into iron. ‘She is not a toy.’
Eris scoffed, releasing the hair at last. She leaned in just long enough to blow a breath of air into Ylva’s face, then skipped away with infuriating lightness. ‘As you wish. I’m going.’
The moment the doors closed behind her, Ylva exhaled a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
And she froze when she noticed Hagan doing the same.
As if, beneath all his cruelty and control, even he was not entirely untouched by fear of the goddess who had just left the room.
‘Come here,’ Hagan said abruptly.
When Ylva did not obey, he exhaled a short, irritated breath, realising belatedly what he himself had done.
With a flick of his will, he loosened the blood magic binding her legs.
Only her legs. Everything from the waist up remained locked in place.
The sensation was deeply unsettling, her body divided against itself.
‘Sit,’ he ordered, nudging an empty chair forward with the tip of his boot.
‘Why?’ Ylva asked, suspicion sharpening her tone.
‘Just do as you are told.’
She lowered herself into the chair but edged away instinctively, every fibre of her body recoiling from his nearness. Hagan noticed. His hand shot out, gripping the edge of the chair, and he dragged her closer until their legs pressed together.
‘Don’t you dare,’ he warned, catching the flash in her eyes as she leaned forward, teeth bared in instinct. Her arms might have been useless, but her mouth was still very much her own.
‘I wasn’t going to do anything,’ she said, voice flat.
Hagan scoffed. ‘I thought valkyrians couldn’t lie.’
‘That’s the Fae,’ Ylva shot back.
He ignored her retort and unrolled a scroll, placing it directly in front of her. ‘Read,’ he said. ‘If you find anything worth mentioning, tell me.’
Ylva frowned at the parchment. ‘Shouldn’t one of your people be doing this?’
Hagan did not answer. He had already returned to his own scrolls, dismissing her existence as easily as he had commanded it—leaving her trapped beside him, reading words she did not trust, for reasons she did not yet understand.
‘What exactly am I meant to be looking for?’ Ylva asked.
He offered her nothing in return, not even a glance. With a quiet sigh, she lowered her eyes to the scroll and began to read. Minutes passed in uneasy silence before she spoke again, frowning.
‘What is a God-Killer?’
This time, Hagan lifted his head. His gaze slid from her face to the parchment in her hands. ‘What does it say?’
‘I’m not sure. Some of the words are…’
‘Are what?’
‘Strange.’
A low chuckle escaped him. ‘I’m certain they are. They’re written in an old tongue, one very few still understand.’
Ylva’s brow furrowed as she studied the markings again, unsettled by the realisation that she hadn’t noticed before.
‘An ancient wolverian tongue,’ Hagan continued, almost lazily.
She pressed her lips together, the gesture sharp enough to draw his attention and his amusement.
‘Few can speak it. Fewer still can read it,’ he said. ‘Though there were rumours once that the late wolverian queen knew the language well enough to teach it to her children.’
‘Stop it,’ Ylva hissed.
‘Why?’ He leaned closer, invading her space until she was forced to lean back against the chair. ‘Afraid of the truth, valkyrian?’
Her jaw tightened. ‘My runes—’
‘They hurt, don’t they?’ His eyes gleamed, cruelly bright. ‘The more you reach for your past life, the worse the pain becomes. They say the runes can burn. That if you push too far, they might consume you entirely and reduce you to ash for daring to remember who you were.’
‘Then why do you keep forcing this on me?’ she snapped.
His smile sharpened. ‘Because I want to see them burn.’
The spit left her mouth before she could stop herself, striking his face.
Ylva knew instantly she had made a terrible mistake. The punishment would be severe. She had no doubt of that. But she did not regret it.
Some things, no matter the cost, deserved contempt.
Hagan seized her face, his broad fingers biting into the soft flesh of her cheeks, the pressure increasing until it burnt. His purple eyes dragged slowly over her features—her mouth, her nose—before settling on her eyes, unblinking and intent.
‘They say the eyes betray the soul that dwells within,’ he said, closing the distance until their noses nearly brushed. His breath was warm, invasive. ‘Tell me, valkyrian, what do you see when you look into these purple eyes?’
Ylva fought the urge to turn away. She did not want to look at him. Did not want to play his twisted games. All she wanted was the darkness of her cell, the warmth of stone at her back, and Arden’s steady and familiar voice, the only thing anchoring her to sanity.
‘We all have souls,’ she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. ‘You may pretend you do not, if it helps you excuse your cruelty. But it is a lie. You have a soul, just as I do. And that excuse will not work on me.’
He stared at her for a long, suffocating moment. Then, abruptly, he released her.
Ylva sucked in a breath as the pressure vanished, her skin aching where his fingers had been. She watched his face carefully, and for the briefest heartbeat she saw something flicker behind those hard purple eyes, something raw and unguarded.
Sadness, perhaps. Or shock.
Whatever it was, it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
But it had been there.
She was certain of it.
‘You are here because I possess texts written in old wolverian that I cannot read,’ he said. ‘Nothing more. Do not mistake that for importance.’
‘I never claimed otherwise.’
‘Then be silent and do as you are told.’ His voice sharpened, edged with frost, his eyes hardening to ice. ‘Continue reading.’
Ylva obeyed, her attention returning to the scroll. The words blurred together until one phrase made her pause. She lifted her head once more. ‘You never explained what a God-Killer is.’
Hagan sighed and dragged a hand over his shaved scalp, irritation etched plainly across his features. She did not care. If her presence grated on him, all the better.
‘A God-Killer,’ he said at last, ‘as the name so plainly suggests, is something capable of killing gods.’
Ylva’s brow furrowed as she glanced back down at the text.
‘And who would want to kill the gods?’ The question unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
To meddle with the divine was to rewrite the world itself, to fracture the fragile order holding everything together.
And yet, treacherously, the image of Eris erased from existence stirred a dark spark of temptation.
When Ylva looked up again, her body went rigid.
‘You?’ she asked quietly, her voice suddenly small. ‘You wish to kill the gods?’
‘No,’ he replied, a slow smile unfurling across his handsome face. It was sharp, cruel, and wicked enough to rival divinity itself. ‘Not all of them.’ He leaned back slightly, that smile deepening. ‘Just one.’